


we are only what we always were

by windsthatwhisper



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 1600s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Salem Witch Trials, some references to The Crucible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 07:04:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20004268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsthatwhisper/pseuds/windsthatwhisper
Summary: Jonathan is not a witch — or wizard, or warlock, or whatever in God’s name Salem thinks he is.Mrs. Rutham was not accusing him of witchcraft when she begged him to put the paste on her daughter’s knee, and that was three years ago, and yet here was little Mary walking around the courtroom as if the paste had given her the ability to leap fifty feet in the air.





	we are only what we always were

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted a Salem Witch Trials!AU because I’m like, obsessed with it, so I wrote this. 
> 
> Title taken from “The Crucible” by Arthur Miller

Jonathan is not a witch — or wizard, or warlock, or whatever in God’s name Salem thinks he is. He doesn’t make make potions; he mixes some herbs for soups, and sometimes a combination of the right ingredients can make a paste to put on scrapes and bruises — but only as a  _ disinfectant.  _

Mrs. Rutham was not accusing him of witchcraft when she begged him to put the paste on her daughter’s knee, and that was three years ago, and yet here was little Mary walking around the courtroom as if the paste had given her the ability to leap fifty feet in the air.

Then someone shouts that they’d seen Jonathan with a  _ man,  _ leaving town late at night with bruises on his neck, and the courtroom starts raving. 

A gavel bangs, and Patrick’s out of his seat, shouting that this was madness, that Jonathan is not a  _ witch, _ but they already have their hands on Jon and are pulling him out of the room.

He goes to see him in the jail that night, sneaks around the dozing guards and down the steps. Jonathan’s huddled against the wall in the corner, wrists chained up, trying to keep away from everyone else locked in the cell who’re crying and screaming to let them out.

Patrick falls to his knees in front of the jail bars, reaches inside to try to grab him. “Jon.”

Jonathan lifts his head and finds Patrick’s eyes. Hurriedly, he scrambles away from the wall and gets as close as he can to the bars, fighting against the chains. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Patrick croons, teaching our to cup Jonathan’s cheek, “You are more a man of stupidity than you are of evil. Why do you not just admit to witchcraft? They will spare you.”

“I am no witch and you know it,” Jonathan says grimly, “My name will not be besmirched by a lousy rumor created by paranoid people and some little girls that want the town’s attention!”

“Keep your voice down,” Patrick hisses, “Someone will surely hear.”

Jonathan’s eyes cast downwards in sadness, and even with his head down, his chin is high. “A witch I am not, nor are these people. They have already hanged sixteen. I will surely be next.”

“Stop it,” Patrick snaps, eyes stinging with tears, “You will not. Please, just admit to witchcraft and come  _ home.” _

The other prisoners are whispering around them, and surely by now they know at least that the queer part of Jonathan’s trial was true.

Jonathan nuzzles his face downwards and kisses Patrick’s hand, soothing him. “I will be alright.”

“I will kill them all,” Patrick says, “If you are hanged, I will make them regret—“

“Do not do anything stupid,” Jonathan hisses, “They’ll take you for witchcraft as well. You must leave, Patrick. Get out of Salem and never return here.”

_ “Not  _ without you.”

“Yes without me!” He yells, startling some of the other prisoners. Jonathan can’t bring himself to care. “You are not safe here. Sooner or later, they’ll learn my love for you, and they’ll call it witchcraft and condemn you as they did me.”

“You worry so about your name, but it will surely be besmirched when you are hanged as a witch while the entire town watches. I am not a child, you do not tell me what to do. I will not leave you.”

“You will,” says Jonathan, softer now, “Once I am hanged, there will be nothing left for you here. I don’t want to die knowing you will be next. Promise me.  _ Promise me,  _ the moment I am dead, you will leave.”

Patrick cannot help the tears now, and he nods through the feeling of betrayal in his heart, “If you die, I will run.”

Jonathan’s shoulders drop, all the fight seeping out of his body. “Thank you.”

“I must go; they’ll be checking in on you soon.” Patrick presses close to the bars. “Kiss me goodbye.”

It’s difficult, barely able to graze one another’s lips due to the chains keeping Jonathan away, but it’s the best either of them can do.

“Do not forget me.” Jonathan whispers as Patrick stands to leave.

“Never,” promises Patrick, before turning and fleeing the jail.

———

The guards starve them. It’s been near a week since Jonathan was locked up, if the sunlight from the small window across from the jail was real. Jonathan wasn’t too sure what was real anymore.

They’ve broke the necks of three more since Jonathan got locked up, and he knows he is next.

His hanging is scheduled for today, and he’s bracing for the inevitable. He’s been unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. He wakes from a fitful slumber to an echo of footsteps.

He’s just comprehending that there are guards in front of him as they’re unlocking the doors to the jail. One of them grabs him roughly and yanks him to his feet. He feels weak from malnourishment, and he stumbles at the force the guard is using.

The guard uncuffs him, grip horribly tight and tugging viscous on his arm. Jonathan keeps his head straight and his eyes locked on the man holding his wrists. People behind him are crying, begging for Jonathan’s life. He appreciates it, but he knows it will do no good.

He leans up against the wall for support, unable to stay on his feet by himself. To his surprise the guard goes to the woman behind him and uncuffs her too. She starts crying, trying to rip herself away, shrieking and sobbing for the mercy of God.

“Quit your cryin’!” The guard grumbles, “You’s all free.”

Jonathan turns so quickly, he stumbles over his feet, “Pardon?”

“God talked to the Reverend. He’s come to the ‘realization’ that the only witches in town were the three hung at the start,” he says with a snarl, “Seems sketchy to me. I’d dare say the Reverend done got himself involved with witchcraft himself.”

“But he has not,” Jonathan says, winded from standing for so long, “So we can go home?”

“You best keep your eyes open,” the guard threatens, “Just because the Reverend ended the witch hunts don’t mean you ain’t a witch.”

The prisoners flood the stairs once they’re free, desperate to get out and to safety. Jonathan struggles to keep up, to not get trampled by the stampede of people.

But then he’s out, stumbling into the open air and collapsing weakly in the dirt. He’s got to go; he’s got to  _ move.  _ He needs to get to Patrick, needs to run before the Reverend changes his mind.

People are rushing out of the town hall, running to their loved ones that are coming from the jail. His legs are weak, but he’s packed on enough muscle from chopping lumber and taking care of the farm that he’s still got just enough strength left in him to push himself to his hands and knees.

Out of nowhere, Patrick runs into him, nearly takes him to the ground but is able to keep them upright. He’s crying, full-on sobbing into Jonathan’s shoulder, holding on as tight as he possibly can.

Jonathan is stunned for a moment, mind buzzing as he tries to comprehend the fact that he’s got Patrick in his arms again. He’s got to fight to make his arms move, but they finally come up to wrap around him, pull Patrick close and squeeze him hard.

“The Reverend,” Patrick sobs, “He said he’d- he’d rather see a hundred witches walk off than h-have one innocent life be taken. Jon, they-they let everyone go-”

“I know,” Jonathan breathes, closing his eyes as he takes in the fresh air, the smell of the wood shavings in Patrick’s hair, “I am so sorry I put you through that, darling.”

Patrick shakes his head, “It is not you who is at fault. I’ll make them pay. You’ll see, Jon, they’ll never get another fresh basket of vegetables again, I swear it —“

“Be still,” Jonathan says softly, caressing Patrick’s hair, “You are right. They will not get our vegetables, because we are leaving.”

“Leaving?”

“Yes. If the town can come to something like this under the teachings of God, I fear what else could occur. I will not have you where I was.”

“Jon, it took us years to build our farm.”

“It need not matter,” he tells Patrick sternly, “We leave immediately.”

Patrick helps him away from the town, backs turned to where a mob has gathered to tear down the gallows. 

Patrick refuses to let Jonathan do so much as ride, so they decide to stay in Salem three days more while Patrick nurses him back to health. He’s always either in the kitchen cooking or in the bedroom with Jonathan, unable to leave his side for more than a few minutes.

“Be easy,” he asks as he puts the rim of the bowl of broth to Jonathan’s lips, “You’re exhausted.”

“I am aware of my health.” Jonathan snips, but drinks at the broth greedily. It’s been a week since he’s last eaten, and a week without Patrick’s cooking. (In his defense, he’s so hungry that he’d eat pig’s feet.)

Now that he’s safe, back in the comfort of his home on the outskirts of Salem, he can’t even lift his arms. His body’s eaten away at his muscles, and he doubts they’ll be healed by the time they ride. He won’t tell Patrick, though; he already frets too much.

They both wake sometimes in the midst of nightmares, of being hung or burned, of being alone without the other. They leave bright and early on day three, when Jonathan can barely walk and Patrick is wide-eyed and sleepless.

Some of the townspeople try to get them to stay — “We mind not your queerness,” “You don’t have to leave,” and “You have a life here,” — but Patrick ignores them all. No more pastes and no more vegetable farm and no more witches.

“This town is damned at the hands of the Devil,” he tells the Reverend when he stops by, “run by a lot of rich, paranoid psychopaths who seeked revenge and claimed it God’s work. You almost killed my Jonathan, because he knew how to mix  _ herbs.” _

“It was a misunderstanding…” the Reverend tries, but Patrick would hear none of it. 

“A misunderstanding that killed  _ twenty people.  _ Twenty innocent people!”

“Patrick.” Jonathan interrupts, hobbling out of the house. Patrick hurries up the stairs and to his side, holding onto his arm to support him. “That’s enough.”

“It will never be enough,” Patrick seethes, “They were so worried about the Devil corrupting the people of the town, they didn’t realize the Devil was doing his work through the witch hunts.  _ He didn’t need witches.” _

“Patrick,” Jonathan repeats, putting his hands on Patrick’s arms and turning him away, “Why don’t you get the last crate? We can leave straight after.”

Patrick sends one more piercing glare to the Reverend, before kissing Jonathan’s cheek and disappearing inside. The Reverend is left blushing in embarrassment.

Jonathan looks at him for a long time. “He’s right, you know. You were all so busy hunting witches, you never stopped to think that, that’s what the Devil wanted you to do.”

“I-I,” the Reverend sputters, “I am very sorry for what we have put you through, Jonathan. You know we never meant for it to go this far.”

“Perhaps not,” Jonathan says, “but it did, and you let it. It’s not I whom you’re searching for forgiveness — it’s yourself. You look for a forgiveness that you cannot give yourself. I think, that before you can ask others for forgiveness, you have to start with your own soul.”

Patrick comes back out with the crate and heaves it onto the wagon. Jonathan nods at the Reverend, “I hope you can mend the wounds of Salem, Reverend. They’ll need you now more than ever.”

“No,” the Reverend says, “They need God more than ever.”

Jonathan stares at the little town in the distance. “I don’t think God has cast an eye upon Salem in a long time.”

The Reverend bids them goodbye, and the moment he’s gone from eyesight, Patrick and Jonathan climb onto the wagon and take the reins of their horses. 

“Where to?” Jonathan asks, lifting a shaky arm up to fall across Patrick’s shoulders. Patrick leans into him, rests his head on Jon’s shoulder, “I was thinking New Amsterdam.”

“As long as it’s away from here.” Jonathan agrees.

The sun is over the horizon, dawning a new day as they leave behind a broken town that will once again wake in mourning. 


End file.
